Happy Endings
by TB584
Summary: All stories must end. But, if you knew your story had a bad ending, how far would you go to change it? This is the story of Nick Wilde, a mammal determined to find a happy ending.
1. Bedtime Stories

_**Note: this story takes place in a Zistopia universe.**_

* * *

 _ **Bedtime Stories**_

When I was a kit, my mother used to come into my room at night and tell me stories.

There were the adventures of the brave Sir Wilde, fox-in-shining-armor extraordinaire; there were the missions of astronaut Nicholas P. Wilde and the voyages of Captain Wilde and his intrepid band of miscreants. Chances are, you name the genre, there was a story about it.

All the stories were great. Mom just had this way of telling them that mesmerized me; I could see the tales come to life before my very eyes.

Sitting in bed, I could see the dragons and spaceships; I could feel the heat from the flames, and I could see the stark beauty of space. Those stories lit up my childhood.

Well, up until they didn't.

It's normal for kits to grow out of bedtime stories. It's not like you grow out of stories altogether, but kits just move on from them and into comic books, television shows, and all sorts of other things.

That wasn't the case for me. I didn't "grow out" of bedtime stories.

I never got the chance to.

If you were to ask any chomper (predator) what their strongest memory was, I'm sure you'd get a lot of happy ones: their first kiss, fuck, or whatever romantic memory they hold dear, and I'm sure you'd find some chompers with some great achievement or something along those lines.

However, I'd be willing to bet that a large chunk of them would name a different event; an event that all predators experience.

I'm talking about a chomper's _Taming Day_.

For most chompers, a _Taming Day_ is usually a large party held on the recipients ninth birthday. Friends, family, and relatives you've never seen and probably won't see again all show up with gifts galore. For mine, my parents rented out the _Bite Place_ , a local arcade that was _the_ place when I was a kit.

To this day, I have no idea how they paid for it, but my nine-year-old-self didn't care. The static music, jingling machines, and violently-neon lights grabbed ahold of my friends and me and refused to let us go. Oh, man, it was awesome. I won so many tickets that one of my friends decided to wrap my tail in tickets; I still have the picture Mom took of it.

The grin of utter joy that's plastered across my collar-less face is fantastic, but there's a reason why I keep it locked in my dresser:

It's one of the few things in my possession that will make me cry.

I don't look at it often, but when I do, a few tears seep out from my green eyes. I can't help it. It's the only picture I own that captures that unrestrained, unrestricted, uncollared smile that Mom used to go on-and-on about; the smile she wanted me to give her when she made the one-way journey into the great beyond.

Shortly after that picture was taken, my dad came up to me and removed the tickets.

Not gonna lie: I was pretty annoyed at that.

I gave him a little bit of the patented Wilde snark, but there was something in his eyes, something in everyone's eyes that made my young heart skip a beat: sadness wrapped with unbelievable amounts of guilt. It's a look I can't describe to you but one you would know the instant you saw it.

I should've known something was wrong, but I never got the chance to ask.

Dad squatted down and gave my head an affectionate scratch. "Having fun, Nick?"

I remember responding with a confused "yeah." I thought it was obvious I was having the time of my life.

"That's good." Dad's arms wrapped around me in his best impression of a bear hug. It was tight; too tight. I heard his breath become labored, and it quickly dawned on me that he wasn't letting go. His body wasn't warm; it was icy cold.

I felt the cold spread across my own body. I tried to move my head to see my friends, but all of them had left. The only mammals around me were Mom and Dad. "Dad, is something wrong?"

He didn't respond; he didn't need to. The moment I felt my shoulder dampen, I knew what was happening:

Dad was crying.

Dad never cried. _Never_.

I looked up at Mom and saw the same thing: tears.

It was at that moment I realized why my parents took me to _Bite Place_ : they needed the static music, jingling machines, and violently-neon lights just as much as I did.

I wish I could tell you that I didn't remember what happened next.

But, I do. I remember every _fucking_ detail about what happened next.

I remember Dad pulling away from me, the tears in his eyes twinkling as bright as the collar wrapped around his neck. I remember that look of indescribable guilt because that look will haunt me until I die.

"It's okay, Nick. It'll be okay," Dad said. "It'll be okay."

It wasn't okay.

"You need to come with us, please?" Mom said, reaching down and grabbing my paw with strength I didn't know she had.

"Okay," I said, the smile gone from my face.

My parents took me through the main party area.

There wasn't a party anymore.

Everyone's eyes were locked onto me. All the adults radiated that same guilty feeling: guilt.

Guilt over what was about to happen to me; guilt that they had failed to stop this from happening to them and their kind.

I saw a couple of them turn away, but most had on this horrible mockery of a smile; the smile you give to a kit to try to reassure them that everything is okay, but all the smile does is scare the crap out of said kit (me).

My parents ushered me into a room in the back of the arcade. It looked like an office, with papers strewn about, and a smell I distinctly remember being an unholy mix of oil, paper, and smoke mixed with air fresheners.

A table had been cleared beforehand, and two mammals, an elk and a bunny, stood near it. Both were wearing official-looking uniforms branded with the city's insignia, but the bunny's looked more like a doctor's outfit. They gave me a warm smile and motioned towards the table. I looked at my parents, who tried their best to smile back, and slowly moved towards the pair.

"You must be Nick," the bunny said, walking towards me. She was roughly the same height as me, but that didn't make her any less intimidating.

"Yeah," I said, the hairs on the back of my neck standing at attention. "W-What's your name?"

She pointed at her nametag. "Jennifer."

Jennifer pointed towards the elk, whose antlers were brushing against the tiled ceiling. "And this is Mark."

Mark waved at me. "Hello, Nick."

Jennifer stopped in front of me, shifting the clipboard she was grasping from one hand to another. "Did you have fun out there? It certainly sounds like you did."

"Yeah," I squeaked out. "It was fun."

"You don't need to be scared, Nick." Jennifer must've noticed the look on my face and gripped my shoulder. She looked into my eyes, and I looked into hers. "We're not going to hurt you."

"I know."

I heard a noise come from my parents; a sort-of mix between a growl and a cough. Mark shot them a look, but Jennifer quickly grabbed my attention before I could discern what it was.

"Good. Can you follow me?"

I nodded my head and looked back at my parents. They smiled that _mockery_ of a smile again. "Go ahead, Nick," Dad said.

I started moving forward but quickly stopped. My heart pounded in my chest, and Jennifer noticed my hesitation and let go of my shoulder.

"Do you want to hold my paw?"

I held her paw.

From there, we walked towards the table. A couple of chairs were strewn around it, and Jennifer motioned for me to get into one. I did as she asked, though I had to let go of her paw. I looked back at my parents again, hoping for some kind of sign or signal.

But all I got was that _fucking_ smile.

"My, what a handsome fox you are," Jennifer said, trying to elicit a laugh or some kind of happy sound from me.

She didn't get one.

Jennifer grabbed the stethoscope that was hanging around her neck. "I need you to stay still for a moment."

Jennifer put the ice-cold piece of metal to my chest and listened. She didn't have a hard time; the room had become completely silent, with the faint sounds of the arcade echoing in a manner I found to be incredibly creepy.

Jennifer took the stethoscope away and scribbled a couple of notes onto her clipboard before turning to face Mark. "Make sure the collar is disabled. His heart's going a mile-a-minute."

Mark nodded. He motioned for my parents to come over, and they reluctantly did. They conversed in whispers, and I could only hear bits and pieces that made no sense to me.

"Jennifer," I whispered. Her attention turned away from the clipboard and towards me.

"Yes?"

I tried to say something, but all that came out was a squeak. I swallowed and tried again. "I'm scared."

Jennifer smiled, but it wasn't a smile. I could see the pity in her eyes and the remorse on her face. She put the clipboard down and held my paw, which was now trembling. "It'll be okay, Nick. It's not going to hurt. I promise you."

Jennifer was lying through her teeth. I may have only been nine, but I could see it. But, I did the one thing she knew I would do:

I trusted her.

 _I fucking trusted_ _her_.

"Okay," I said, trying to smile.

Jennifer continued to hold my paw. "You know what's happening, right?"

"Yeah, my mom and dad told me. I'm getting my tame-collar today."

That look of remorse glinted in her eyes again. "Yes, you are. And you are so brave for doing this. Say it with me: I am brave."

I said it, but I didn't believe it.

Jennifer turned around towards Mark. He and my parents had stopped their conversation, and the elk was now holding a black box emblazoned with the same seal sewn onto their uniforms. My parents weren't crying anymore, but the look on Dad's face as he stared at Mark sent shivers down my spine:

It was a look of complete and utter hatred; a look that perfectly captured the world I would soon enter.

Mark set the box on the table and opened it up. He hid the collar from me, but I knew it was there. I gulped and felt Jennifer tighten her grip around my paw.

"Mr. and Mrs. Wilde, do you-" Jennifer began, but she never got a chance to finish her question. The moment she saw the look on Dad's face, her expression turned to stone.

"Just _do_ it," Dad growled. His collar gave out a muted _beep_ , but if he felt the shock, he masked it well.

The time for joking, bantering, and failed attempts to conceal what was happening was over.

Jennifer looked up at Mark and nodded. The elk returned the gesture and passed the collar to her.

The collar didn't look scary. In fact, it looked kinda dumb. A single band of high-quality, black plastic with a green-glowing device built into it; identical to the ones around my parents' necks.

"See? Nothing scary," Jennifer said, putting the collar into my paw. It was surprisingly light, much to the curiosity of my younger self.

"Do I have to wear it?" I asked.

"All predators do," Jennifer said, taking the collar out of my paws. "Dr. Tusk went over it with you, remember?"

Dr. Tusk was my family's physician. A rather large pig, he was one of the few doctors that would see my parents and me.

One week before my ninth birthday, my parents took me to see Tusk. The pig was all smiles when he saw me, spouting off the same lines as Jennifer: "What a handsome fox; You are so brave; Are you having fun?"

Once the formalities ended, Tusk got to the point: in accordance with Zootopia law, I would receive my tame-collar next week. From there, Tusk went over the same things I'd heard on the news and from school:

Because of my "potentially violent tendencies as a predator," I would need to wear a tame-collar. The collar would deliver a "harmless" shock in the event of a "savage moment" to prevent me from hurting anyone.

As a soon-to-be nine-year-old, the only "potentially violent tendencies" I had were my snarky comments and occasional outburst over not getting dessert. You know, normal fucking things for an eight-year-old.

What Tusk actually meant was this: because I happened to be a predator, I needed to wear a shocker because society decided that predators were scary.

Yes, society actually considered a young fox a threat; a fox whose biggest worry in life was missing his Saturday morning cartoons.

And what a "savage moment" really meant anytime was that anytime my heart-rate got above a certain number, a very much _harmful_ shock would punish me for being born a fox; I would be punished for getting excited over a video game; I would be punished for liking chicken over carrots, even though I can and do eat the same foods prey animals do.

What Tusk really meant was simple: the moment I put on the collar, I wouldn't be a kit anymore. I would become a predator. I would forever be restricted, restrained, and collared.

However, I didn't know that as a kit. As a kit, I just nodded my head and went along with it. I understood what was going to happen to me, but I didn't understand what it really _meant_.

After Jennifer went over the same things Tusk did, she grabbed the collar and put it around my neck. I watched my parents look away, but the wail that came from Mom was all I needed to here.

With a simple, precise _click_ , the collar and I became one-and-the-same. I was now marked, tagged, collared. It was _the_ defining moment of my life.

"See? That's it; you're done," Jennifer said, pulling away. "I told you it wouldn't hurt."

The collar wasn't tight around my neck, but the plastic wasn't as light as I thought it was.

While I fiddled with it, Jennifer and Mark wrote various things into their respective papers. She looked up from her papers and smiled. "You can go back to your parents now. It's all done."

I ran back to my parents.

They greeted me with a series of hugs, kisses, and reassurances that "everything would be alright."

I knew damn it wouldn't be.

It felt like an eternity passed before they let go of me, but when they did, they quickly motioned for me to leave the room. I turned around to look at Mark and Jennifer.

The pair had packed up their equipment and were staring at us. I saw that same look of pity in their eyes, and Mark opened his mouth to speak.

"Do you have-"

Mom whirled around and pointed a single finger at the door. I imagine the same look of hatred that adorned Dad's face was on hers. " _Get out_."

The room, which had been unusually warm, become icy-cold. Mark and Jennifer shuffled around, glancing at each other but refusing to even glance towards my parents.

"It's the law, Mrs. Wilde," Jennifer said, looking at the floor.

" _ **Get. Out**_."

They ran out.

When we rejoined the party, my parents refused to leave my side. Even when I was surrounded by my friends, who all wanted to see, touch, and fiddle with my collar, they refused to leave me.

Perhaps they thought I was mad at them; I wasn't.

But, that didn't matter. The guilt never left them. I know it ate at them for the rest of their lives.

The car ride back to our apartment was silent. My usually joking Dad didn't say anything besides from, "it'll be okay."

When we stepped inside our home, I was exhausted, but my parents weren't. Guilt fuels you in ways coffee and caffeine can only dream. I wanted to fall asleep, but Mom insisted on reading me a story.

That was unusual.

The story she chose was new. Instead of picking off with the adventures of Captain Wilde, this story was about a fox who lived in a place where he didn't need to wear a shocker; a place nobody feared him, and a place where he could be whatever he wanted to be.

The story ended the same time I stopped being a kit and became a predator.

Right when Mom had gotten to the part about the fox running free, I heard the collar beep. What I felt next has and never will leave me:

A shock, not enough to be considered painful but enough to numb my senses, sparked out throughout my body. I sat straight up in bed and rubbed the collar, confused and scared. My eyes wandered toward Mom, and whatever she saw in them made her broken heart shatter.

Mom leaned in and hugged me. I hugged her back, my young self not knowing what to say or where to begin. I heard Mom start crying, and soon, I started crying too.

After a few minutes, she released me. The pained look in her eyes is an expression I cannot forget; It is forever burned into my mind.

"I love you so much," Mom said, giving me a kiss on the cheek.

I didn't say anything back; I didn't know _what_ to say.

"Dad will come in to tuck you in, okay?" she said through tears.

Mom shut my door, and I heard her walk into the living room. I heard her and Dad burst into tears, a sort of wailing, nightmare sound that haunts you as long as you remember it.

I never forgot it.

I didn't sleep a wink that night; I'm pretty sure neither did my parents.

After that night, there were no more stories. There were no more adventures of Captain Wilde, astronaut Wilde, or anyone else.

I wish I could tell you that I didn't let the collar get to me. I wish I could tell you that I didn't let the collar become what its creators intended it to do: a constant reminder of what you are, and how society views you.

But, I let it. And if you were in my place, the same thing would've happened to you.

In the years following my _Taming Day_ , it slowly dawned on me that I would never have a story like the ones Mom used to tell me; a story with a happy ending full of adventures and freedom.

I would never be the fox running free, running unrestricted, unrestrained, and uncollared.

Life, society, and the world were determined to prevent that from happening.

However, it seems those forces didn't try hard enough.

Well, that's not exactly accurate.

Those forces didn't plan on something greater than them giving me an opportunity I didn't deserve.

Then again, everyone deserves a happy ending.

 _Right_?


	2. Don't Damage the Goods

_**Don't Damage the Goods**_

Like most kits, my parents - mom, especially - would tell me that I could become whatever I wanted to be. If I wanted to be a doctor, I would - not could - be one. If I wanted to be a writer, artist or lawyer, I would be one. I needed to follow my dreams, talents and skills. All it would take was some hard work, elbow grease, and a "get 'er done" attitude.

And like most kits, I believed it. I thought that if I focused my predator brain fully on becoming the best at what I dreamed of doing, I would become the best at it.

I was destined to become someone famous; a fox who would make my family proud and bring riches and all the other bullshit that comes with that annoying statement.

I'll let you in on a little spoiler: I didn't become a lawyer, and I sure as hell didn't become a doctor.

However, don't think I'm some sort of failed mammal working as a fry cook, living with eight other chompers in some cramped apartment, and looking like the undercooked side of a cricket burger.

I took some of my parents' words to heart: do what you're good at, and follow your talents and skills. With that and hard work, you'll reach the stars!

My talents, skills and hard work didn't lead me to the stars:

They lead me to a coffee shop.

* * *

I glanced down at my watch and rolled my eyes.

My _customer_ was late.

I took a sip of my coffee and licked my chops. The brew wasn't bad. A bit too acidic for my taste, but that was nothing a few spoonfuls of sugar couldn't fix.

Still, I couldn't complain. Free coffee is free coffee.

I cracked my knuckles and relaxed into my chair. Light streamed in through the shop's windows, the rays dancing against the building's dark walls to create a cave-like atmosphere.

Small conversations mixed with the whizzes and whirs of machines behind the counter, constructing an environment that made you want to lean back in your chair, take a sip of your drink, and simply let go of anything that bothered you.

In other words, exactly what I was doing.

I let out a yawn and took another sip of my brew. All around me, the cold, green glows of tame collars shone like fireflies frozen in time.

Outside, wind whirled through the streets, lifting and throwing pieces of trash into the air, only for them to fall seconds later in a mockery of snow. Predators walked passed, with some taking a glance at the coffee house, deciding whether or not to come in.

None did.

If there's one stereotype about us predators that's actually true, it's the watching.

Predators like to watch. Hell, we can't really do anything about it. Like bunnies hopping, herd animals herding, and sheep scaring themselves to death at the sight of their own shadows, watching is a natural action for us predators.

It's not just relaxing: it's stimulating. It's a way to focus on everything and anything that catches your attention. Believe me when I say that I wouldn't want to be cured of it, no matter how it creeps out grass-eaters (which I consider an added bonus, anyway.)

I knew the name of my customer (Kevin), but I didn't know their face. For what they were purchasing, I was expecting to see a young chomper, probably in their early twenties or late teens.

They didn't know what I looked like, but they knew my "name:" Ryan was the name I usually went with when I was selling something that I probably shouldn't, rather, something I didn't want to have come back to bite me in the tail.

Today, I wasn't selling anything _really_ illegal. Nothing that would demand an instant arrest if some brave officer from the ZPD decided to pat me down.

What was I selling, you may ask?

Simple: A couple of sheets of paper that happened to be worth a hell-of-a-lot to the right buyer.

It was when I first took a bite out of my blueberry muffin that my customer decided to show up.

I nearly spit it out.

 _Well, fuck me_ , I thought as my customer approached. _That's a surprise_.

Kevin was easy to spot. He was a first-time buyer, and it showed. He stood up straight, trying to walk with all the confidence that his three-foot frame could produce.

It didn't produce much.

To be fair to Kevin, sheep aren't exactly known for being confident in the first place.

If Kevin's trembling hoofs and violently nervous face told me anything, it was that he also wasn't used to being in _enemy_ territory. However, that hadn't stopped him. He'd braved the _terrifying_ journey into a predator ward without being eaten by its _vicious_ inhabitants.

Kevin stopped in front of the coffee shop, glancing between the sign and his phone. He looked up just to get out of the way of a bear lumbering down the street, not even bothering to glance in the sheep's direction.

A couple of passing predators peeked at him, looks of bewilderment and annoyance on their faces. You never saw sheep in this part of the city. Kevin looked at his phone and back to the sign a couple more times, and I let out a groan.

 _You're at the right place_ , I thought. _Just open the damn door and walk in. Don't freak out on me now._

Another gust of wind blew down the narrow street, and a plastic bag flew between Kevin's legs, surprising the sheep to say the least. He took one last glance at his phone, took a deep breath, and entered the coffee shop.

The eight-or-so predators enjoying their drinks turned their attention towards him. I saw Kevin take a gulp and look around the shop, clearly starting to panic despite being in literally zero danger.

I rolled my eyes and set down my coffee. It was time to get to work. "Kevin!"

Kevin immediately turned my way, along with every other customer in the shop. His eyes met mine, and I let out a patented Wilde smirk.

"Over here," I said in a confident tone.

Kevin practically ran over.

I pointed a clawed finger towards the empty section of the booth opposite from me. "Saved you a seat."

Kevin sat down and scooted over towards the window, trying to take up as little space as possible. His black hoodie blended in with the back of the booth, though his white fur outlined him in vivid detail.

While all sheep look the same to me, Kevin appeared to be in his early twenties. A college student, no doubt.

The emblem of Zootopia University on his hoodie made that assumption a fact.

Kevin glanced between me and the table, not sure what to make of his current situation. If a single trip into the outskirts of a predator ward had reduced him to this, he needed to _stay_ in college.

I let out a small laugh and took another sip of my coffee, my smirk rapidly transforming into a grin.

I'd be lying if I said I didn't find him funny.

I took a bite of my muffin and pointed towards a small cup of coffee situated in front of him. "The coffee's good."

That simple statement seemed to snap Kevin out of whatever survival mode he'd been in. He looked at the coffee like it was some alien substance, before turning his attention back towards yours truly.

"Caffeine is the last thing I need," Kevin said in an educated accent, trying and failing to crack a smile.

I let out a quiet chuckle. "I agree with you there." What Kevin said wasn't actually funny, but a laugh was the perfect tool to start relaxing the sheep.

A scared buyer is usually not a good buyer.

I took another sip. The coffee had reached the perfect temperature: not too hot and not too cold. When I looked back at Kevin, the sheep was staring at me.

Well, staring wasn't the right word. Kevin tried to keep eye-contact with me, but I could see the minute movements of his eyes from when he looked away. A glance at my teeth, a glance at my paws, my ears, my fur, and of course, a glance at my tail.

There was a glint in his eyes: a wonderful mix of curiosity, fear and… something else.

"Are you checking me out?" I asked with a shit-faced grin.

The question caught Kevin completely off guard. He tried to answer, only for several stutters to bumble out from his mouth.

 _Oh, this is going to be fun_.

"It's okay if you are, but fair warning: you're not my type," I said with a wink. "Little bit too fluffy for me."

Kevin didn't respond. The more I watched his nervous gestures, the harder it was to hold back a genuine laugh:

That was a losing fight.

It started off as a chuckle, but it quickly transformed into something between a belly laugh and a snicker. If the red underneath Kevin's fur told me anything, we were getting some odd looks.

The sheep shrank in the booth, trying his best to hide from anyone and everyone. "I'm-I'm not checking you out!" Kevin hissed, his voice a mix of annoyance and embarrassment.

"Buddy, you need to relax a bit," I said, recovering from my pseudo giggle fit. "I'm messing with you, but if you are checking me out, I don't blame you. You're not used to being around foxes, are you?"

Kevin's face took on an irritated expression as he tried to avoid looking at me.

It didn't work.

"Are all foxes this annoying?" he asked.

"Only the handsome ones," I said with a wink. I enjoyed watching Kevin's cheeks turn a violent red. I held out my paw for him to shake. "Nice to meet you."

The sheep looked down at my paw, then back at my face. Kevin tentatively shook it, and his handshake was as weak as you might have guessed.

"Did you have a problem finding this place?" I asked, taking a sip of coffee.

"No, but I was not expecting to find myself…" Kevin didn't finish his sentence, but I didn't need him to.

"In a predator ward?"

"Yeah. No offense," Kevin added.

I gestured towards the symbol emblazoned on the white cup of my coffee. "The name _Snarlbucks_ wasn't a big enough hint?"

Kevin didn't answer. Instead, he dropped his voice and adopted the closest thing to a serious accent that he could manage.

It was pretty funny.

"Do you have what I asked for?"

 _Right to the point_.

"I figured you weren't here for a date," I said, reaching into one of my khakis' pockets and pulling out a thin, wallet-sized envelope. I set it down on the table, and as soon as Kevin's brown eyes looked at it, I could see excited twinkle sparkle into existence. He sat up in the booth, and I half-expected him to let out a bleat.

Kevin reached out to grab it, only for me to pull it away. He looked at me in confusion.

I looked him dead in the eye. "Not so fast. You have the money?"

"Yes," Kevin said, reaching into his pocket. He pulled out a small envelope of his own and placed it down on the table.

"Good," I said, sliding my envelope towards him. I didn't reach for the money. "Make sure it's what you wanted."

Kevin noticed that I hadn't grabbed the envelope but turned his attention towards my envelope. He carefully undid the wrapping, grabbing the item inside with delicate precision. His eyes went wide as he opened the cover and checked the contents.

"Cheese and crackers," I heard him mutter.

 _Cheese and crackers? That's a new one_ , I thought.

Kevin inspected the item with an intensity I didn't think he could do. After a moment, he looked at me with a mix of surprise and genuine joy. "How the hell did you find this?"

"That's my job," I said. "It's what you wanted, right?"

Kevin nodded. "I have no idea how the hell you got this, but you're a life-saver. Really, I mean that." He carefully placed the item into one of his pockets.

"I'm good at what I do." I grabbed the envelope and took out the money, which I quickly shoved into the same pocket where the package had been moments earlier.

Kevin looked at me in confusion. "Are you not going to count it?"

I gave him a smirk. "Already did."

"How?"

I love this little trick.

I reached back into the pocket and pulled out the money, all while keeping my eyes squarely on Kevin's.

"Want to see a magic trick?" I asked.

Kevin nodded. I smiled and closed my eyes, thumbing through the money and pausing every time I felt a new bill.

This was a skill I'd picked up somewhere in my life. When you've counted, felt, handled and even smelled as much cash as I have, you don't need to see the bills to tell what it is. You can do it by touch alone.

A $20 has a different crease than a $10. A $100 is made of higher-quality materials than a $5. Minute stuff like that.

It makes a really good party trick.

"$100, $100, $100, $100, $100, $100, $100, $50, and a $20," I said, opening my eyes and showing him the money. Each bill was in the exact order I'd called it. " _Ta-da_."

Kevin looked at me in awe. "How?"

"Fox magic," I said with another wink, shoving the bills back into my pocket. "It comes with the looks."

That got another blush from Kevin. "I'm sure it does," he said.

His gaze flicked towards my watch, and I watched him pull out his phone and check the time. He got out of the seat and motioned towards the door. "Well, I need to go. I can't thank you enough for finding me this."

"Your thanks is the cash you just gave me," I said. I stuck out my arm. "It was nice doing business with you."

"Likewise, Ryan." Kevin reached out and shook it. I noticed his grip was tighter than before, but I could still see a small amount of fear in his eyes and nervousness on his face. He wasn't comfortable being here, and, frankly, I didn't blame him.

I let go of his paw and motioned towards the door. "If you go now, you'll be able to catch the express going back downtown."

Kevin's brown eyes narrowed in suspicion and surprise. "How'd you know I was heading downtown?"

I grinned and took a bite of my muffin. "Lucky guess."

I don't think Kevin thought it was a "lucky guess."

He quickly walked through the door and back outside. I watched him carefully speed walk down the sidewalk. When he reached the intersection, he took one last look behind him, and took a left down another street towards the subway station, vanishing from view.

I cracked my knuckles and let out a yawn. "Like taking candy from a baby."

Behind me and to the left, a gruff voice laughed. "It's a sheep; the hell did you expect?"

"Are you judging our _dear_ customer?" I replied. "That's not very nice."

From the same direction as the voice came the unmistakable _click_ of nails hitting Snarlbucks' tiled floor. I turned my head and was greeted with the sight of my partner making his appearance.

"He's a fucking grass-eater. I'm surprised he had the guts to even come down here," Finnick said, climbing into the same booth where Kevin had been sitting moments before. His constantly-annoyed expression was a sight I'd gotten used to working with. It just fit his tiny frame and sandy fur perfectly.

"This is _Zootopia_ , remember?" I said, smirking. "The place where _anyone_ can be _anything_."

Finnick grabbed Kevin's undrunk coffee and took a swig large enough to drown a fennec fox of his size. When he looked back at me, I could see hatred in his eyes. "If you say that again, I'm gonna kill you."

"I'm shaking in my fur," I said, taking a final bite out of my muffin. "You ready to head out of here?"

Finnick took another massive sip of coffee, emptying the cup. "Course. I hate being in places like this."

"That's because you don't have any style," I said, motioning towards my green, floral-themed shirt.

"Style my ass," Finnick replied, jumping out of the seat. "You look like a fern fucked an air freshener."

"Ouch," I said, throwing my empty cup and wrapper into a nearby trashcan. I pointed a finger at Finnick's black t-shirt and stained jeans. "If that wasn't coming from someone who has to shop at used children's stores, I may actually be offended."

"Low blow," Finnick said as we walked towards the door. I waved at the barista, a well-dressed tiger, who simply rolled his eyes and continued making whatever he was making.

"All blows against you are low blows," I said as we stepped outside and began walking down the street. Finnick's van was parked in the alleyway directly behind Snarlbucks, and it wasn't long before I was leaning against the yellow, rusted-out hunk of junk.

Finnick reached into his pocket and pulled out the key.

"Does the little guy need a lift?" I asked.

Finnick didn't respond, but the sole finger he flipped at me made my smirk blossom into a grin.

"The little bird goes _tweet-tweet_ ," I teased.

The driver's side door creaked open, flakes of rust landing on the ground. Finnick jumped in as I strutted to the passenger's side and climbed into the stained, patched, and generally disheveled interior.

I reached into the glove box and pulled out a pair of aviator sunglasses. Putting them on my face, I turned to Finnick.

"Want your cut now or later?"

Finnick rolled down his window, looked at me, and extended an open paw. "Now."

"Don't be greedy," I said, reaching into my pockets and pulling out the $770. I counted out $350 for Finnick and placed it in his open paw. "There we go. Happy?"

Finnick counted the money, let out a grunt I took as "thanks," and shoved the wad of bills into his pocket. "$770 for a fucking test key. Was he stupid or desperate?"

"Both," I said as Finnick put the van in gear and pulled out onto the street, heading in the opposite direction of where Kevin went. The muffler let out a sharp _bang_ as Finnick shifted into another gear, causing several predators to jump in surprise.

I rolled down my window and took in a deep breath. The unmistakable smell of ward air filled my nose. It was a putrid mix of trash, grease, dust and mammals.

To grass-eaters, it represented everything wrong about predators. It was a stench that no matter how much the city tried to "clean up," it would never go away. It was an eyesore on their perfect "utopia."

But for us chompers, it was simply a reminder of home.

As Finnick navigated through traffic, I stared out the window at the only home I'd ever known. Countless shops, most more illegal than legal, dotted the streets. You could buy anything down here, no matter how immoral or unethical it was. You just needed to know where to look.

The deeper we drove into the ward, the poorer it became. Monolithic apartment buildings, as bleak as they were gray, walled in the streets and blocked the view of downtown Zootopia. The smell became worse; a heavy, suffocating miasma that slowly choked the hope and life out of anyone unfortunate to breathe it in.

Homeless chompers became more and more common, too, and Finnick had to be careful to avoid hitting them. They were harder to spot during the day. At night, you could at least see the mocking glow of their tame collars.

The city may not have been able to provide them with shelter, but boy could they provide them with collars.

I hated driving through this area of the city. Believe me, if there were a different route I could take to get home, I would take it. The van couldn't be trusted on highways, meaning we had to take side streets and alleyways until we got on one of the city's many boulevards.

It wasn't the smell, the buildings, the shops or the dozens of homeless chompers that bothered me. I've gotten used to seeing those.

What bothered me was something far worse:

Truth be told, I don't live in a bad part of the city. It's by no means a _nice_ part of the city, but it's somewhat safe, somewhat decent, and the mammals living there give somewhat of a damn about their lives.

Hope, while in small amounts, still existed.

However, where we were driving through, hope _didn't_ exist. It was as foreign to this area's residents as courage was to rabbits.

The poor souls who lived here had no hope, no future, and no dreams. You could see it on their faces. They looked like walking dead, with no emotions on their faces and more dust than color in their fur.

More often than not, their bodies were skinny, even for chompers. No, skinny is the wrong word.

More _emaciated_ than skinny.

There was no twinkle in their eyes, no spring to their steps, and no smiles on their faces. The buildings were ramshackle, with weeds and vines growing up from the cracked concrete like the dead rising from their graves.

Kits played in the streets, and their parents lived in them. Everyone's clothes were torn, stained, and little more than rags.

You don't want to know what they ate.

Finnick drove as fast as he could through here. He didn't slow down, and he sure as hell didn't stop. If we hit something, we hit something. The faster we could get out of this hellhole, the better.

This was the Zootopia the city didn't want anyone to see. This was hell in physical form, manifested on chompers whose only fault was being born here.

And for them, hell was home.

"Finnick, you gotta get your van fixed," I said as the muffler let out another _bang_.

"You gonna pay for it?" Finnick asked as he turned down a side street, nearly colliding with a fruit stand.

"Don't give me that shtick." The van began to vibrate in a somewhat terrifying manner, and I double-checked to make sure my seatbelt was still on.

Then I remembered the van didn't have seatbelts.

"Seriously, this thing's going to end up killing you or, even worse, _me_ ," I said as the van squeaked, rattled and banged itself to a stop.

"Oh, in that case, I'll get right-fucking on it," Finnick said, waiting for the light to turn green.

"I'm glad we can agree on that," I teased. As soon as the light turned, Finnick gunned it, and I nearly fell out of my seat.

"Hey, don't damage the goods," I said, motioning at myself.

"The more you say that, the more I want to crash this van into a wall."

I'm not sure if he was joking or not.

"You'd have to buy a new van," I replied.

"If that would damage _the goods_ , it'd be an even trade," Finnick said, turning onto Columbia Avenue. We'd left the slums, and we're now in what most Zootopians considered to be the bulk of the city.

Rows and rows of apartments, varying in size, height and rent, lined the avenue. Small commercial offices and small business were scattered about. Chompers and grass-eaters mingled as close as both sides could stand. The air smelled better, too. More obnoxious than putrid.

Over the tops of the buildings, you could clearly see the glittering skyscrapers of downtown Zootopia. They turned, twisted and towered above the landscape. The light danced off the multi-colored glass, creating a sight that even the most hopeless mammal could admire.

"A shitty van for a _masterpiece_ like me? This is why I do the talking, and you do the getting."

"Masterpiece my ass," Finnick said, flipping off a car next to us for reasons unknown to the driver and, I think, Finnick.

"The sheep would disagree with you," I replied.

Finnick honked the horn and turned to me for a split second. "A sheep waseye-fucking you, and you take that as a compliment?"

"Someone's _jea~lous_ ," I sang, enjoying the scowl appear on Finnick's face.

"Yeah, I'm real fucking jealous," Finnick growled as he merged into traffic.

He was totally jealous.

I smirked and let out a happy chuckle. The smirk turned into a grin as I saw the rare smile appear on Finnick's perpetually-annoyed muzzle.

"He _was_ totally eye-fucking you," Finnick said, trying to hold back a laugh. His gravelly voice had a tinge of amusement to it. "I was tempted to take a picture when you called him out on it."

"Now that would just be mean, even for you," I said.

"That wouldn't make it any less funny," Finnick laughed. "What's your plan for tonight, Wilde?"

"Finnick, is there something you need to tell me?" I asked, batting my lashes at him. "Did our dear friend Kevin light a fire in your heart?"

" _Please_ ," Finnick said. "You're not my type."

I feigned shock and put my paw over my heart. " _Oh no_. How will I _ever_ come to terms with this _shocking_ rejection?"

Finnick rolled his eyes and turned down a side street. We were now firmly in my neighborhood, and it wouldn't be long before I was home. "Fool, I'm going to The Bite with Jack, Jake and Emma tonight. You want to come?"

"So that's why you asked for a bigger cut than usual," I said, waving to a chomper I knew as we passed down a bustling street. Rush hour was in full effect, and we sped past a sea of collared chompers making their way home from work. "Some Friday night drinking?"

"You want to come or not?" Finnick asked.

I thought about this for a moment. I wasn't exactly planning on doing anything tonight, and I hadn't talked with Jack, Jake or Emma in what felt like weeks. Still, a night of not doing anything sounded just as nice. "Like, are we going right now?"

"Nah. It's what, 4 p.m. now?"

I checked my watch and nodded.

"We were going to meet at nine and watch the Bighters' game," Finnick said. I could hear the excitement in his voice.

The Bighters were one of the best rugby teams in Zootopia. A motley mix of large, roided-out predators, they were Finnick's and most other predators' favorite team. Finnick never missed one of their games, no matter who, when or where they played.

"They're playing tonight?" I asked.

"Yeah, and they're playing against the fucking Kings. Some grass-eater vs. chomper action. The Bite's going to be rocking, and Emma somehow got us a table."

The Kings were also considered to be one of the best rugby teams in Zootopia, but they were a prey team. The two teams met on few occasions and for good reason: during the games, they actively tried to kill each other.

That's not a hyperbole.

I smiled and pointed a clawed finger at Finnick. "In that case, I'd be stupid to miss it. Count me in."

"Great. You're going to need to get yourself there, though," Finnick said, tapping the dashboard of the van. "I don't want to drive this _beauty_ any more than I need to."

"And I don't want to be in it any more than I need to," I replied. We'd reached my building, and Finnick pulled up onto the curb. He didn't dare turn off the van, but he managed to put it into park.

"A'ight, catch you later," Finnick said as I opened the door and jumped onto the sidewalk. I gave him a salute and smiled as he flipped me the bird.

I mouthed a _tweet-tweet_ , and with a bang, the van pulled away and into the distance. I turned around and strutted towards my apartment building, a grin on my face, a gleam in my fur, and a glow to my collar.

Oh, and $420 in my pocket.

Can't forget that.


End file.
